Lord Andrei of the High Basin disliked surprises.
They implied disorder, and disorder implied weakness. Both were unacceptable.
He stood at the tall window of his hall, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out at the mountains that guarded his domain. Snow still clung to the higher passes, stubborn and slow to retreat. Below, stone roads wound like veins through pine and rock, carrying trade, soldiers, and secrets.
Behind him, a fire crackled softly.
Petru waited.
"Read it again," Andrei said.
Petru did not argue. He unfolded the thin sheet of parchment and read aloud, his voice careful, neutral.
The boy from the Low Marches has changed.
He is quieter now. Less decisive. No longer draws attention.
Villagers describe him as reliable, unremarkable.
I believe this is deliberate.
Silence followed.
Andrei turned slowly. His face was unremarkable in its own way—neither handsome nor cruel, framed by a neatly trimmed beard already threaded with gray. His eyes, however, missed nothing.
"You believe," Andrei repeated.
Petru inclined his head. "Yes, my lord."
"That is not a conclusion," Andrei said. "That is a suspicion."
"And suspicions," Petru replied smoothly, "are often more valuable than facts."
Andrei studied him for a moment, then nodded once. "What changed?"
Petru hesitated. "A granary fire. Sabotage. The boy intervened. Effectively."
"And afterward?"
"He diminished."
Andrei walked back to the window, considering. "Most boys grow bolder after success."
"Yes," Petru agreed. "This one retreated."
"Fear?"
"Possibly."
"And possibly," Andrei said, "calculation."
Petru smiled faintly. "You see why I stayed longer than planned."
"I see why you should have stayed even longer," Andrei replied coolly.
Petru's smile faded.
Andrei picked up a second parchment from the table—older, worn.
"Do you remember this report?" he asked.
Petru leaned closer. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes. Years ago."
"Read the name," Andrei said.
Petru did. "Mihail. Son of—"
"Enough," Andrei interrupted.
He folded the parchment carefully. "Different boy. Different village. Same pattern."
Petru frowned. "You think—"
"I think," Andrei said, "that some men are born already listening."
He gestured toward the mountains. "Most people speak. A few shout. Rarer still are those who wait."
"And waiting," Petru said slowly, "means they are learning where to strike."
"Or where not to," Andrei corrected.
He returned to the table and poured wine into two cups, offering one to Petru.
"Tell me," Andrei said, "did the boy ever lie to you?"
Petru thought carefully. "Not directly."
Andrei smiled thinly. "That is not an answer."
Petru met his gaze. "Then yes."
"Good," Andrei said. "Liars who know they are lying are manageable."
He sipped his wine. "Liars who believe themselves honest are dangerous."
Petru shifted his weight. "What would you have me do, my lord?"
Andrei considered.
"If the boy were ambitious," he said, "he would seek us out. If he were fearful, he would flee. He has done neither."
"So we force a reaction," Petru suggested.
"No," Andrei replied. "We observe."
Petru raised an eyebrow. "Observation invites loss of initiative."
"Rashness invites disaster," Andrei countered. "You brought me this because you sensed deviation. Deviation does not require correction. It requires understanding."
He leaned forward slightly. "If the boy is hiding, then he expects predators."
Petru nodded. "And if he expects them…"
"He is already thinking several steps ahead," Andrei finished. "Which means he is not prey."
A servant entered quietly, bowed, and placed another document on the table. Andrei waved him away and scanned the contents.
"A patrol report," he murmured. "Low Marches again."
Petru stiffened.
"They found nothing," Andrei continued. "Which is precisely what worries me."
Petru exhaled slowly. "You think he knows he's being watched."
"I think," Andrei said, "that he behaves as if he assumes it."
That earned a silence heavy with implication.
After a moment, Andrei spoke again. "Send a second watcher."
Petru frowned. "Another agent?"
"No," Andrei said. "Not an agent."
He tapped the parchment thoughtfully. "Send someone who does not care about the boy. Someone who won't flatter, threaten, or recruit."
Petru's expression darkened. "You mean—"
"Yes," Andrei said softly. "Send someone who watches patterns, not people."
Petru nodded slowly. "He won't interfere."
"That is precisely why I want him," Andrei replied.
Petru hesitated. "If the boy notices?"
Andrei smiled faintly. "Then he will learn that even silence is heard."
He turned back to the window, dismissing the matter with his posture.
Far below, clouds crept through the passes like scouts.
"Leave him where he is," Andrei said. "Let him grow bored. Let him believe the lie is working."
"And when it stops working?" Petru asked.
Andrei's eyes reflected the firelight, cold and steady.
"Then," he said, "we will see whether he is merely clever… or inevitable."
Petru bowed and turned to leave.
At the doorway, Andrei spoke once more.
"Petru."
"Yes, my lord?"
"If the boy dies," Andrei said, "ensure it is dull."
Petru stiffened. "Dull?"
"No martyrdom," Andrei continued. "No mystery. No meaning."
Petru nodded grimly. "Understood."
When he was gone, Andrei stood alone in the hall, listening to the fire.
"Quiet men," he murmured, "always think they're unseen."
He lifted his cup in a silent toast—to mountains, to roads, to futures that bent whether men noticed or not.
Far away, in a muddy village at the edge of the world, a seventeen-year-old boy slept uneasily, unaware that his lie had been read—and judged.